


Sharp Teeth

by elisende



Series: Whisper My Name [3]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Dark Past, Light Angst, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28099203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisende/pseuds/elisende
Summary: Halsin joins Langoth's camp and Astarion isn't thrilled about it.  But Halsin and the ranger's mutual fascination is unyielding and undeniable.
Relationships: Halsin (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Whisper My Name [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079360
Kudos: 14





	Sharp Teeth

There was an energy in the air, the sort of charge that preceded a night of more than mere revelry. It would be a night of abandon. Halsin could sense it. 

The young elf, Langoth--he allowed himself the pleasure of saying the name aloud, under his breath, like a cantrip, or a prayer--had chosen a fair site for his camp by the water’s edge. 

The mere fact of it reminded him of the youth, his wounded eyes and battle-hardened hands. He saw him in the neatly constructed fire at the heart of the camp, and in the fallen beech trunk by the water, where he knew Langoth must sit most nights, at the mercy of his grim thoughts, twisting the ring on his finger and staring sightlessly into the rushing stream. In many ways, he was not so different from Ketheric, before he was lost to the darkness.

Halsin found a place for himself away from the gathering crowd of anarchic tieflings, who danced and frisked about the camp like so many red flames.

It was not long before the pale elf, Langoth’s vampiric companion, sauntered over. He wore a slashed velvet doublet and a crooked smile. Halsin had seen through his facade in the Shattered Sanctum quickly enough, and his hunch had been confirmed when the pale elf had dug his dripping fangs into an acolyte’s throat. He wouldn’t soon forget that sight.

“Well met,” the vampire spawn said. “Decided to join us, have you? I imagine you’ll be quite a favorite in the adventuring party. For a time, at least.” 

Halsin laughed a laugh which was not a laugh at all, but a species of growl. “Oh, I’m merely here for advice. Ketheric Thorm and I have a bit of unfinished business.”

“That is rather your thing, isn’t it? ‘Unfinished business’?” said the pale elf. So he knew, or had guessed, about Halsin’s connection with Langoth. He couldn’t imagine that Langoth had told his companion about their night together, about the ritual, the wild game. But he did seem the type to sniff these things out.

When he didn’t rise to his bait, the vampire spawn shifted tactics. “We haven’t been properly introduced, have we? Langoth is an eminently capable ranger, but somewhat lacking in social graces. Raised by wolves, you know,” he said, showing his teeth. “I am Astarion.”

“I have a higher opinion of wolves than of most civilized people,” Halsin said. “At least they’re plain in their intentions.”

Astarion laughed, a silky, practiced sound. “You’re going to be great fun, I can just tell.”

“‘Fun’ is not a word that’s usually ascribed to me.” He folded his arms in front of his chest. The vampire spawn attacked and dodged like a phase spider, impossible to pin down.

“Oh, I have a hard time believing that. You must join me for a sip of wine this evening. My ego will be terribly crushed if you decline,” Astarion said. “Really, you mustn't make me beg. It would be unseemly.”

“Actually, you seem the sort that might enjoy that,” Halsin said. 

“See, you are fun, even if you are old enough to be my grandsire,” Astarion smirked. “Well, I’ll see you tonight, then.” And he swept away on a waft of sweet violet perfume before Halsin could correct him.

Halsin heaved a weary sigh, glancing over as Langoth’s comrades gathered near the fire. His heart seemed to treble in size as he expectantly looked around for Langoth, who was never far from his companions. But he was not yet here. Perhaps still palavering with Zevlor, then. He tried to quash his disappointment and failed. Now that he’d found Langoth--now that they had found each other--every moment spent apart felt somehow wasted. He felt like a lovesick adolescent again, as ridiculous as that was--for as Astarion had so mordantly noted, he was old enough to be the elf’s grandfather.

Night fell and as the chaotic energy built up and the din of the crowd grew with the flames of the bonfire, Halsin’s gaze lifted to the waning moon that ascended over the horizon. Despite all that had happened, and his many mistakes, he was not often prone to regrets, to dwelling on the past. Perhaps this too came with his advancing age. He had never felt so apart before, not just from the others laughing and dancing and drinking and singing by the fire. Apart from himself. If he could not end Ketheric’s curse, now and finally, what had his long life amounted to? What was its purpose?

And then Langoth was beside him, as though summoned by magic. Firelight danced in his eyes. A smile on his lips. Warmth that Halsin could lose himself in, forgetting all doubt and darkness. This one, he could protect: and that would be enough. He felt it in his marrow.

Langoth’s lips found his and there was a sudden rush of heat, like dry grass catching flame. His mouth was sweet; Halsin lost himself in the kiss, running a hand through the younger elf’s chestnut hair, taking in his scent. Then pulling his hips closer, dangerously close.

When they finally broke away, Langoth asked, “Why are you standing over here alone in the dark?”

He might have lied, to save his pride. But they were past such things. “I was waiting for you,” he said. 

The other elf paused, drew his breath. “You should join the celebration, you know. This is as much your victory as the tieflings’. The Emerald Grove is safe now.”

“Nowhere is safe, while the shadow Ketheric unleashed still remains.” He failed to keep the darkness from his voice. He didn’t wish to think of Ketheric but felt bound to warn Langoth. If their path led there--to Moonrise Towers--there was much that was needful to know. 

But not tonight. “Come to me later,” he said, taking Langoth’s wrist and looking into his eyes. They shone with starlight. The young elf leaned closer, lips brushing Halsin’s ear, his warm breath sighing on Halsin’s neck, heating his blood anew.

“I don’t want to wait until later,” Langoth whispered. The youth’s impatience, his hunger and urgency, reminded him of their stolen moments in the grove the day before. How Langoth had bitten his arm to keep from crying out and giving them away, even drawing blood when Halsin had taken him with too much force. The memory of it quickened his breath.

“Where?” Halsin asked, glancing toward the increasingly wild revels, the glowing heart of the camp aroar with gaiety. Langoth took his hand and pulled him further into the darkness, under the hush of the pines. His tread was soft; the elf knew his woodcraft. 

They stopped in a small clearing where a stone table stood under a gnarled oak. A place of sacrifice which he recognized from many years ago. 

“This once was consecrated to Corellon, in the days when our ancestors ruled the Sword Coast,” he said, examining the runes on the table. Magic had preserved them against the elements, but even the enchantments were now wearing away. Only a slight tingle of it remained under his fingertips.

“Ancient history,” Langoth teased, leaping onto the table with ease. Despite all, he was still, at least in part, a heedless youth given to demonstrations of skill.

“That’s blasphemy,” Halsin said with a wry smile. 

“You’ve not seen anything yet.” And Langoth knelt on the table, dipping his head just slightly to give Halsin a long, sensuous kiss. His lips trailed down Halsin’s throat, finding the gap at the top of his tunic, where he lapped the base of his neck with lingering, greedy strokes of his tongue. Halsin groaned.

Frustrated by the druid’s tunic and straps, Langoth impatiently pulled at the buckles, swearing in filthy Baldurian street slang when they defied him. “Here is a riddle,” Halsin said. “How does a wood elf of noble bearing learn to curse like a Heapside cutpurse?”

Langoth’s mouth was otherwise occupied, however; he was now unbuckling Halsin’s baldric with his teeth. He hissed when they caught his skin instead. “Careful,” he murmured. But the elf had succeeded and was pulling away his clothes, eager hands gliding over the bare skin beneath. 

Finally, Halsin stood bare-chested and Langoth paused to admire him, his fingers tracing the fading vine tattoos that extended from his face down the length of his torso, coiling just below the line of his breeches. Halsin shivered under his touch, the rough callus of the elf’s bow finger chastising his flesh.

“So many scars,” Langoth said. He touched a long-healed wound that ran horizontally across Halsin’s ribs, the slash of a wyvern’s claws. Now he knelt to kiss along the scar even as his hand wandered down the front of Halsin’s breeches. Halsin moaned as Langoth palmed his cock through the rough weave of the linen. He was already so hard. He reminded himself to take things slower, this time, even as every part of him wanted to pull Langoth from the stone slab and take him against the rough bark of the ancient oak tree. 

Reluctantly, he pulled back from the ranger’s touch and kissed him again on the mouth, slowly but forcefully, insisting. Now his hands found the front of the youth’s jerkin and began to unlace it--it had to be said, with more deftness, if more slowly. His skin beneath was hot--nearly feverish, even--and soft, unblemished save by the few silvery scars Halsin had noticed before on his back. He wondered about those, as he wondered about the Baldurian slang, about the fear that lived in his gaze, and about the strange affliction that the elf and his companions were battling. 

“Most of your scars are invisible, aren’t they?” he whispered into Langoth’s ear. The youth stilled like a stalked deer; even his breath seemed to stop. He half-expected Langoth to pull away from him, to slip off into the darkness and leave Halsin for the party, or for another partner without uncomfortable questions about the past, or just for solitude with the ghosts of his past.

But instead, the ranger drew him into another kiss, this one desperate, rough, wild. He slid forward on the table, hand finding Halsin’s cock again, this time underneath his breeches. He gripped the base and achingly slowly stroked along his shaft to pause at the tip. Halsin felt almost weak with desire, leaning forward against the table for support with a moan.

“You want me,” Langoth said. It was not a question. 

“You know that I do,” Halsin gasped. The youth was kneeling above him, skin aglow as marble in the moonlight. He tugged down Langoth’s leather breeches, exposing the top of his pelvis, the angles of his hip bones. He kissed there roughly, making him sigh. His hands cupped the elf’s firm round ass and pulled him closer to the edge before unlacing the rest of the breeches to expose his manhood.

Remembering his own admonition to move slowly, Halsin bowed over the youth’s cock and ran his lips over the crown before beginning to tease it with his tongue. Langoth was salty and tasted so slightly of the leather he wore. Above him, the elf groaned, taking Halsin’s hair in his fists and pulling involuntarily as the druid took more of him into his mouth. 

Halsin’s self imposed restraint was more than matched by the youth’s eagerness as he arched his hips to force himself deeper and deeper into Halsin’s mouth. When the youth moaned, a high and helpless sound, the druid knew he was close to coming, that Langoth was pushing himself to the edge and beyond it as hard and fast as he could. 

With a shudder in his lean hips, a sigh, Langoth’s climax overtook them, filling Halsin’s throat with salty nectar. He coughed, but the youth was beyond noticing. He’d fallen back from his knees to rest, gasping, on the stone slab, eyes fixed to the stars above. A tear suspended from the corner of one eye, and while it could have simply been provoked by their exertions the druid knew better. He wiped it away with his thumb and held the youth’s face in his hand for a time.

Finally, Langoth looked back to him, and his eyes were unreadable. “Take me here,” he said. “Don’t be gentle, this time.” And he slipped off the ceremonial table to bend over it, resting his cheek against the hewn stone. 

His back was long and rippled with muscles and the faint tracery of the silver scars. In defiance of the elf’s words, Halsin ran his fingers slowly down the length of it, pausing when he came to his buttocks where the creamy tops of his cheeks were barely exposed by his breeches. He eased them down, hands shaking. He’d never wanted him more than this moment and he wished to stretch it out as long as he could. He pressed himself to the elf’s ass, relishing the answering cry, the way he rose to push against Halsin’s cock. He parted his cheeks and slid his finger inside of him, two, thrusting faster, and when he began to use more force the elf gasped in pleasure. This was what he wanted.

He could restrain himself no longer. Langoth cried out as he entered him, even though the first dip of his hips was shallow. The youth was so tight. Halsin adjusted the angle of his hips, so as not to hurt him but Langoth leaned forward to take him deeper. “Harder,” he demanded, his voice thick. 

Halsin gathered himself for a deeper thrust, moving forcefully but still slowly, mindful not to hurt the elf in spite of his demands. Yet he was fighting his own impulses at the same time. He wanted to take the youth with the same abandon as in the rite they had performed under the eyes of another, wilder god, those decades ago. That night imposed itself on the present and his hips seemed to move of their own accord. Langoth grunted as his tempo increased, as the druid rutted him, heedless as an animal. 

A moan escaped Halsin’s lips as he sank himself up to hilt into the youth writhing and groaning below him. Distantly, he heard the youth call his name, begging him. He grasped Langoth’s hips, taking him deeper than ever before even as his climax blindsided him, crashing over him like a wave. He finished with a muffled cry as he came inside the youth, bowing his head over him and releasing a shuddering breath.

Below him, Langoth was still but for his breathing. Halsin rested his head on the ranger’s back as he caught his own breath, only to see the power of their joining had activated some of the ancient magic on the stone table, making the runes glow. This was the moment, he realized--under the stars’ vigil, under the eyes of the gods themselves, by dint of ancient rite--that their bond had been forever sealed.


End file.
